


because i could not stop for death, he kindly stopped for me

by mishcollin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fallen Castiel, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 12:05:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mishcollin/pseuds/mishcollin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel dies and is given a choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	because i could not stop for death, he kindly stopped for me

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a reference to the Emily Dickinson poem "Because I could not stop for Death."

Castiel dies. Quick and easy, a little bit bloody, but it’s effective, nonetheless. Castiel doesn’t mind dying, anyhow, so when he finds himself face-to-face with a reaper only moments later, it’s more relief than trepidation that he feels.

“Hello, Castiel,” the reaper says, her eyes reproachful.

“Hello, Tessa,” Castiel replies, recognizing her. “I assume this the part where you take me beyond the veil?”

“Not quite,” Tessa says, twisting her lips. “God has a somewhat different plan for you.”

Castiel sucks in a deep sigh. Of course he does. Like Naomi said; he doesn’t even die right. Even a mortal death just wouldn’t be that simple. 

He looks around, expecting to see the warehouse where he’d been attacked (and killed, he supposes), but finds an open meadow instead; somewhere in the Appalachians, it looks like. “Where are we?”

“You let yourself die,” Tessa accuses, and when Castiel turns to look at her, her eyes are slitted with disapproval. “You practically threw yourself to that werewolf and left Dean Winchester holding your broken corpse.”

 _Dean._ A wash of guilt and self-hatred floods through him, leaving a taste bitter as blood in his palette, and Castiel knows the extent of his selfishness very acutely. He’s just too tired, too weary, and if that condemns him to hell, so be it. Besides, he thinks a bit sadly, Dean will be much better without him. Safer, healthier, less trouble later down the road. He knows Dean considers him a friend, so he entertains the thought that Dean will mourn him, but he knows, deep in his bones, Dean will come out better from it. Castiel’s existence in his life is a constant misery and source of conflict. His death, Castiel thinks, can be his parting gift to his old friend. That thought, at least, is a consolation.

“So you just gave up,” Tessa says, seeming to read his thoughts. “Suicide is generally frowned upon, Castiel.”

“I didn’t _kill_ myself,” Castiel snaps, defensive. “I’m an inexperienced hunter and the werewolf got me. Accidents happen all the time. Just take me wherever it is that souls go, and everyone can move on.”

“I’ll hand it to you,” Tessa says, “you’re the most eager participant I’ve possibly ever encountered. But no dice, Castiel. Like I said, God has something in mind for you.”

Castiel bites out a sharp, impatient breath. “Can’t He just let me die already? Is He intent on tormenting me for the rest of my existence?” Maybe God believes Castiel doesn’t even deserve rest, after everything he’s endured. He’s probably right, Castiel thinks with a pang of self-loathing. Why does he deserve a fate as kind as permanent death?

Tessa sighs in a martyred sort of way. “Give it a rest, would you, Cas? You’re even more irritating with your self-hatred than Dean was, and I can tell you that Dean was _very_ irritating in that regard.”

“So what is God’s master plan, then?” Castiel challenges, taking an aggressive step forward. This has no effect on Tessa; she watches him steadily, with an ancient and untested sort of patience. “Keep bringing me back to life until I’ve suffered enough? Keep me alive after the Winchesters are gone so that I have nothing, absolutely _nothing_ , to live for anymore?”

“You misinterpret God’s will,” Tessa says softly, “He is giving you a choice. But He only asks one thing of you first.”

Castiel pauses, his stalled words perched on his lips. He struggles for a moment, trying to find a ruse in Tessa’s words, before he asks, grudgingly, “And what’s that?”

“He wants you to remember the three most important things that have ever happened to you,” Tessa says with a small half-smile that seems to have multiple connotations.

Castiel blinks, taken off-guard, before he replies, “And how am I supposed to know that? I’ve had a long existence, Tessa.”

“God already knows, even if you don’t consciously know them yourself,” Tessa says. “He’s going to show them to you, from what He’s seen in the depths of your heart.”

Castiel scoffs. “God doesn’t know me. Not anymore, if He ever did.”

“Oh, but He does.” Tessa takes a step forward, her wide dark eyes tracking his every movement. “He knows you even better than you know yourself, Castiel.”

Castiel hesitates another moment before he shakes his head in resignation. “Fine,” he says. “I allow this, and then God lets me die?”

Tessa stares at him a moment before before she says, “If you so wish it.”

“I consent, then,” Castiel says, and Tessa places a hand on his shoulder.

—-

Castiel recognizes hell by the feeling even more than the stench of rotting flesh, sulfur, and blood; more than the hollowing screams and wails and screeches and sobs; more than the sight of bloody flesh clumped on old rusted hooks or the whipping snaps of hellfire that flare up to consume souls that haven’t suffered enough. 

No, Castiel recognizes hell by the feeling alone; the despair, misery, agony leaves an acerbic taste in his mouth, hot and acidic in his nostrils.

“Why are we here?” Castiel chokes to Tessa through the fumes of sulfuric gas, his eyes smarting despite the fact that he seems to be without a physical form.

“Don’t you recognize it?” Tessa asks. “September 18, 2008.”

The date somehow registers familiarly with Castiel even though he keeps no track of human time.

The sound of commotion instantly compels Castiel to look up, and he is shocked by what he sees; himself, in celestial form, tangling viciously with a demon, the snarls and sonic booms gripping and shaking what feels like the entirety of hell. Castiel’s eyes water wistfully at the purity of his form, the immutable light that festers even in the depths of hell, the outstretch of wings that he no longer feels. The glory of what once was, he supposes.

September 18, 2008. Of course. Of course Castiel remembers this day with incredible vivacity despite the limits of his human memory. This was the day he rescued Dean Winchester from hell.

“I was separated from my siblings,” Castiel murmurs in reminiscence as he watches the grotesque beauty of the fight with Alastair. “Somehow, Dean called out to me, away from the other angels that laid siege.”

After a few moments of vicious fighting, Alastair, a horrific maelstrom of dark smoke and chunks of bone and flesh, screams at a decibel that makes even Tessa wince and slinks off to nurse his wounds.

“I should’ve killed him when I had the chance,” Castiel says, his voice nearly a growl, and Tessa claps a hand on his shoulder and transports them to an even deeper level of hell; the deepest, as a matter of fact, the throat of hell itself.

Castiel’s throat closes painfully when he sees Dean, strung up in chains and his head bowed in defeat, blood gushing in rivulets down the lengths of the chains and to the floor. Alastair had barely even started in on him before the angels had attacked, he thinks with a twist of sickening rage.

Past-Castiel, an expansive impossibility of light and celestial grace, moves forward toward Dean, and Castiel remembers suddenly his dismay at the blood on Dean’s hands that was not his own. The Righteous Man had already broken, and irrevocably. 

He feels Tessa watching him but doesn’t feel self-conscious; he’s riveted by the scene at play.

Tentatively, past-Castiel reaches forward and touches Dean, just once, and Castiel closes his eyes because he doesn’t have to watch to remember. He remembers everything he felt at that sole touch to the last vivacious detail; Dean’s strength, his selflessness, his protectiveness, his self-detestation, his hatred, his grace, his goodness, his love, all flooded straight into Castiel’s very being. Castiel had been staggered by it, taken by it, overwhelmed, _lost_ by it. 

And he had known, from that moment, that he would never be able to see Dean as anything less than he was. He was no longer the Righteous Man; he was Dean Winchester, son of John and Mary and brother of Sam, the most important human being in existence. Castiel doesn’t have to watch; he remembers.

 _Castiel!_ That is Uriel’s bellow, booming and rattling the chains of hell. Dean whimpers and shifts, blood bubbling on his lips. _Do not touch him, you are commanded. He is Michael’s to raise._

In retrospect, Castiel knows this disobedience is what started and ended it all; the point of no return, of no redemption.

 _No,_ past-Castiel says, sealing his fate, _he is mine,_ and grips him tight.

—-

Castiel is disoriented when he finds himself suddenly in the Green Room with Tessa right beside him, still gazing at him him with ambivalence.

“Was that the first one?” Castiel asks, and Tessa nods once. Castiel turns forward and feels himself smile. “And this is the second.”

He and Dean are fighting. It is the day of Armageddon, and here’s Dean, trying in vain to persuade an angel to save the world.

Castiel watches the punch Dean throws with a fond smile.

“It’s Armageddon, Cas, you need a bigger word than _sorry_ ,” Dean bites out, cradling his sprained hand, and yes, Castiel remembers this too. Not proudly, he might add, but of course he remembers this day.

“Try to understand,” past-Castiel entreats, “this is long foretold. This is your…”

“Destiny?” Dean says, his eyes glinting with fury. “Don’t give me that holy crap. Destiny, God’s plan—it’s all a bunch of lies, you poor stupid sonofabitch! It’s just a way for your bosses to keep me and keep you in line!”

Past-Castiel looks lost, perplexed, uncertain, somewhat vulnerable, and Castiel wonders how he could’ve ever been so naïve; how he ever could’ve doubted the intuitive wisdom of Dean Winchester.

“You know what’s real?” Dean asks. “ _People._ Families. _That’s_ real. And you’re gonna watch ‘em all burn?”

Castiel watches with some fascination as his past self advances on Dean in a moment of aggression. “What is so worth saving? I see _nothing_ but _pain_ here.”

“Seem familiar?” Tessa murmurs.

Castiel shrugs. “Some things don’t change.”

“I see inside you,” past-Castiel is ranting, “I see your guilt, your anger, confusion. In paradise, all is forgiven. You’ll be at peace, even with Sam.” Past-Castiel glances away, and Dean tries to catch his eye.

“How is this my most important moment?” Castiel asks Tessa. “I don’t exactly remember this with any sort of pride.”

“Just wait,” Tessa says. “Don’t you remember how the story goes?”

“—this is simple, Cas.”

Castiel watches his past self turn away and sees all the unwarranted storms of emotion cross his face, out of Dean’s eyesight.

“—no more crap about being a good soldier. There’s a right and a wrong here, and you know it.” Dean grabs past-Castiel and whips him around. “Look at me! You know it. Now you were gonna help me once, weren’t you? You were gonna warn me about all of this before they dragged you back to bible camp. Help me now, please.”

Castiel winces. He remembers “bible camp” and wishes he doesn’t. Months upon months of torture (under who he didn’t realize at the time was his dear sister Naomi) had not been kind to him—or the Winchesters, consequentially.

“Get me to Sam,” Dean is pleading, “and we can stop this before it’s too late.”

“I do that,” past-Castiel says, “we will all be hunted. We’ll _all_ be killed.”

Dean looks at him earnestly, with such hope that it almost physically hurts Castiel to see again. “If there’s anything worth dying for, this is it.”

God, Castiel thinks, Dean Winchester will never cease to amaze him.

Past-Castiel, to Castiel’s disgust, shakes his head and looks away. 

Castiel closely watches the convulsive twist of anger and hurt that crosses Dean’s face before he deadens it with a quick twitch of his lips.

“You spineless, _soulless_ sonofabitch. What do you care about dying, you’re already dead. We’re done.”

It feels, almost hilariously to Castiel, like a break-up on one of the horrible Spanish soap operas Dean makes him watch.

“Dean,” past-Castiel pleads.

“We’re _done._ ”

Past-Castiel stares at Dean for a few moments, almost agonized, before he vanishes. Castiel and Tessa follow him to an open clearing in a Himalaya highland and watch him pace restlessly, his trenchcoat snapping in the blustering wind.

“How much I’ve changed,” Castiel murmurs, watching himself, “how little I used to know.” He knows now, of course, that he would help Dean in a heartbeat, even less.

“It took everything to get you here,” Tessa says with a slight quirk of her mouth, and Castiel gazes at her in surprise.

Past-Castiel is still pacing, gnawing at his knuckle in a devastatingly human display of anguish, and Castiel remembers the turmoil that seemed to writhe inside him against his very being. Angels weren’t supposed to feel; not conflict, not dissatisfaction with the orders they’d been given, not anything at all. Even then, Castiel had known he was different from his siblings and had hated himself for it. Had been terrified of it.

This terror wasn’t sufficient enough, Castiel supposes, to keep from returning to Dean and shoving him against a wall in the Green Room. Past-Castiel, Castiel remembers, does this not out of obligation, or spite, but out of faith. Possibly even love.

Past-Castiel cuts into his forearm as easy as butter, and he bleeds for Dean Winchester for the first time.

—-

Castiel is, needless to say, shocked to find his third instance in an ice cream parlor, of all places.

“Wait a moment,” Castiel says after a few moments of confusion and waiting for Tessa to explain. “I remember this. This was three weeks ago.” He turns quickly and sees himself and Dean sitting at the corner table, just as he remembers. Dean is grinning at him and past-Castiel is focused intensely on the green ice-cream clumped into the cone in his hand.

“This was recent,” Castiel says in surprise. “Dean was showing me ice cream for the first time.”

Castiel feels rather than sees Tessa’s smile.

“Cas, you’re making a fucking mess of yourself,” Dean complains as melted ice-cream dribbles down Castiel’s hand, down his wrist. “You have to lick the part above the cone so you don’t get stuff everywhere.”

“I forgot about the melting bit,” past-Castiel says a bit sullenly, and laps at the ring of ice-cream above the cone. Castiel is watching Dean, who’s watching past-Castiel with a wide, happy grin and such affection in his eyes that something in Castiel’s gut twists.

“You’re such a failure,” Dean chuckles, shaking his head, and eats his own ice cream, watching past-Castiel the whole time. Does Dean always stare at him that much, in that way? He’d never noticed.

“I’m so very sorry that I’m inadequate at eating ice cream, Dean,” past-Castiel huffs. “Do you want to turn me in for a refund?”

Dean throws his head back and laughs. Past-Castiel smiles, despite himself.

“Nah,” Dean says with a grin. “I don’t think I could handle another ex-angel who’s potentially as grumpy and annoying as you are.”

“Shut up, Dean.”

“Damn, Cas,” Dean says after another moment of laughter, shaking his head, “you are something else.”

Castiel watches past-Castiel freeze, because he’d heard the unspoken _“I love you”_ there and had been so shocked that his gaze had snapped up to Dean and his scoop of ice cream had fallen off and dumped onto the table.

“Christ, Cas,” Dean snaps, the moment gone, “are you kidding?” He dashes off to get a napkin but past-Castiel is still staring after him with an expression like a deer in headlights, gripping onto the ice-cream cone like a vice.

“It’s okay, Cas,” Dean says when he returns, with a frown upon misinterpreting Castiel’s expression. “It’s just ice cream. We can get you another one. Here, come on.” He puts a hand on past-Castiel’s shoulder, who’s still gazing up at him dazedly. “C’mon, you like Oreo, right?”

The memory ends, and Castiel finds himself back in the clearing. He feels strangely choked up, although he doesn’t know why. He thinks it’s because he misses Dean, and fiercely.

“You miss him, don’t you?” Tessa asks with another soft smile.

Castiel nods. “I didn’t realize quite how much.”

“Well,” Tessa says, “before I say this, I’ll have you know that this is the only time this has happened to me in history, so count yourself special. But God is having me give you a choice, Cas. Life? Or death? It’s your call.”

Castiel stares at her for several moments, thinking over what God had shown him and trying to digest it.

“I choose…” he says, then stops himself, thinking of the pain and bewilderment and bitterness of living a mortal life. “I choose…”

Tessa watches him expectantly.

“I choose Dean,” Castiel says.

Because really, Castiel reflects, when had he ever had a different answer?

—-

Castiel comes to soaked in his own blood and the familiar smell of Dean in his nose. He blinks a few moments into darkness, trying to grip his bearings, and realizes that he’s enfolded in Dean’s arms, and that Dean is slowly carding fingers through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” Dean is whispering over and over again, “I’m so sorry, Cas, God, I’m so sorry.”

Castiel hates himself even more for a moment, because how could he leave Dean like this? How could he be so stupid and selfish? Of course Dean would blame himself for Castiel’s death.

“Dean,” Castiel says, weakly, and Dean stiffens for one, two, three seconds and yanks back, staring at Castiel in utter disbelief. Castiel watches emotions chase themselves across Dean’s face; amazement, relief, confusion, joy, then anger.

“Cas, you goddamn _sonofabitch._ What the fuck were you thinking, going off by yourself?” Dean practically shouts, the tear-tracks on his face somehow granting his fury less credibility. “You’re a fucking _idiot_ , you know that? And you’re lucky God likes you and keeps bringing you back because you were a fucking _doornail_ , Cas, alright, and I—I—if you’d just _stayed_ with Sam and me—”

Castiel sags, suddenly dizzy and nauseous, and Dean catches him and asks in sudden, soft concern, “Cas?”

Castiel nods.

“You’ve lost a lot of blood, okay? Just lay back while I patch you up. _Jesus…_ ”

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Castiel says, and means it more than he ever has.

“Sorry this, sorry that. You’re always fucking sorry, aren’t you?” Dean continues, ripping the sleeve off his favorite flannel shirt and pressing it to the gouged claw marks on Castiel’s chest. “Yeah, well, I’m not taking it anymore. I don’t have to put up with your dying bullshit, alright? Fuck you, Cas.”

Castiel smiles.

“You’re a little bastard for the shit you put me through, you realize that, right? Sometimes I hate you, Cas, I swear to God.”

“I love you too, Dean,” Castiel murmurs sleepily, and due to his closed eyes misses whatever expression crosses Dean’s face.

“I—I didn’t,” Dean says, struggling, “I _never_ said—”

“Shut up, Dean.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Okay.”

Castiel passes out after that, but not before he feels Dean pulling him into a cradle position to carry him from the warehouse. 

Dean’s hands, gentle and sweeping on his back, feel strangely and familiarly like wings.


End file.
